


colors

by dazeful



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Archery, Colors used for emotion, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Not Beta Read, Olympics, Pro Volleyball Player Oikawa Tooru, Sugawara Koushi-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25790671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazeful/pseuds/dazeful
Summary: Sugawara Koushi's colorful life as an archer.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 19
Kudos: 147
Collections: Haikyuu Olympics Bang, One-Shot Goldmine





	colors

**Author's Note:**

> Art by:  
> Ptitepluie (twitter) / underwaterrain (tumblr)

_“The bow is drawn_

_Precise aim_

_steady hand_

_solid base_

_Release triggered_

_the arrow flies_

_straight and true_

_Bulls-eye”_

(The Fire Burns)

The first time Sugawara Koushi took up a bow he was green. 

A child clutching a weapon taller than him with shaking hands, arms struggling to pull back the string and let the arrow loose. His father laughing as Suga’s arrow strikes the ground in front of the tree he was aiming for. 

The world was green. A field of rolling viridian, as far as Suga’s child eyes could make out. The boy who shot next to him had a neon green bow that was harsh on Suga’s eyes. Green plants, green leaves, green grass stains on old t-shirts. 

Suga had not wanted to do this, he was a child that much prefered to stay home and under the ankles of his mother as she cooked, than to be dragged out to a field and handed a weapon. _“It’s a tradition, Koushi, all of the Sugawara’s practice archery.”_ His father was chuckling as he said it, amusement in his golden eyes as Suga threw a tantrum during the car ride there. _“You can’t be good at something the first time.”_ His father was comforting as he saw the pout on Suga’s face as yet another arrow was lost to the bushes. 

The green of the world around the child was deafening, all other colors faded to shades of gray until all Suga could see was evergreen. 

Cold metal chills his shaking hands as he knocks another arrow, and his arms groan under the weight of the bowstring. His father kneels beside him, a hand on Suga’s arm to keep the bow from tipping forwards. He whispers something in Suga’s ear, but the child is far past the point of listening. 

The bowstring catches the exposed skin on his arm as he lets go. It burns, bringing a sea of red to the surface of Suga’s pale skin, but he doesn’t notice. He is too caught up in the fact that his arrow had struck the center. 

“ _Dad!_ ”

_“Good job, Koushi!”_ His dad places a heavy hand on the boy’s hair, making his head tilt forwards. _“I knew you could do it!”_

Another arrow, this time on the lower right corner of the target. Again and again, Suga knocked arrows and let them fly. He shot until his arms ached and the sun hung low in the sky, until his father had to throw him over his shoulder and into the car. Suga rubbed at the blisters that were forming on his fingers, they hurt but the boy couldn't keep the smile off his face. 

Suga was green. He was just a kid with a bow, not yet an archer, a child following the whims of his parents. He wasn’t yet an archer, but he was hooked on the sport. 

→

Suga puts on a brave face when he tells Ukai to let Kageyama take his place. 

There’s a can of coffee in Ukai’s hand when Sugawara finds him, the boy focuses on that. He lets the golden logo of the drink attract his attention, letting it distract him from Ukai’s stern gaze. “Mr. Ukai?” He clenches his hands in his pockets, his nails dig into the soft skin of his palm. 

Ukai cocks his head, “What’s up?” 

The boy takes a deep breath, the script he wrote out earlier still fresh on his mind. “Us third years don’t have a next year.”

His coach stiffens, and Suga sees his hand tighten around the coffee.

“That’s why I want us to win as many games as possible. I want us to get the ticket to the next game.” Another deep breath, Suga turns his eyes to Ukai’s face. 

There’s a bead of sweat on the man’s forehead. His eyebrows are furrowed, and Suga can tell he’s surprised. 

Suga continues, “If Kageyama is the better choice to get that ticket, then I think you should select him without hesitation.” Ukai makes a noise of surprise, and Suga feels his pulse speed up. “Daichi and Asahi have been playing together since they were freshmen.” Images of the other two boys flit across Suga’s mind, he recalls memories of past games and the view from the sideline. “I want to stand in the same court with them, the more plays the better.” 

He lets his breathing slow down, tries to push the vivid sensation of panic away. “If Kageyama gets tired or something unavoidable happens…” Despites Suga’s effort to control his nerves, his voice breaks. “Even if I’m just filling a gap or subbing in…” He sees Ukai’s eyes grow soft. “Even if you _pity_ me for being in this position, despite my seniority. If it means I’ll have more chances to play in games, I’ll take what I can get.” 

The boy’s amber eyes turned a molten gold as they lit up with a spirited fire. He would not waver, he would make sure Kageyama carried the team to victory. And Sugawara would be there to catch the other setter should he falter. “Even if I’m not the official setter, I will never give up on playing. I want to be given more chances to do that.” Ukai makes a noise somewhat like a cough. “Ah, I’m sorry for coming off so snotty.”

The coach runs a hand through the mane of blonde hair on his head. He turns to fully face Suga, “Sugawara. I believe I underestimated you.”

Surprise makes Suga’s eyes go wide. He’d been underestimated? Just _what_ did Ukai think of him before this? 

“To be honest, you’re freakin’ me out right now.” Ukai laughs, a hint of nervousness in the noise. 

_“What?”_

Ukai clenches his fist once more, “I’m still green as an instructor, but I’ll do everythin’ I can to keep you guys on the winning track.” 

Suga smiles, relieved. “Thank you, sir!” He bows, turning away and letting Ukai fade into the distance. He’d done it, the team would be better off now. 

The silver haired setter gets through the remainder of camp without thinking much about the confrontation. He gets back to their own gym and through practice without a second thought on it, but then practice is over and he runs face first into Kageyama. 

“Oh, sorry!” Suga delivers a light punch to the freshmen’s shoulder. “I didn’t see you there!” 

Kageyama dips his head, “It’s okay. I should've been paying more attention.” He reaches up to hold his neck, and Suga wonders if the action is a nervous habit. “Sugawara, listen, I𑁋”

Suga doesn’t hear what his junior says. Because suddenly all he can see are those ocean eyes staring at him with such pity. The colors of the world fade away like water down a drain, washed away until all that is left is blue. 

The sky's the dark blue that comes before rain. There’s a pin on Kageyama’s backpack with blue stripes. A blue car races past on the road beside them. 

Suga feels his breathing speed up, he covers his mouth with his hand, and pushes past the other boy. _I don’t need your pity._ He wants to say. _Don’t look at me with those eyes._ But he won’t say that, he would _never_ blame Kageyama for being the official setter of Karasuno. No, the only person Suga would blame was himself. 

It feels like he’s drowning. The blue feeling of sorrow and regret had pushed Suga’s head under the water, making him feel overwhelmed. He wasn’t sure where he was going, his feet kept walking and Suga let his body switch to autopilot. Then he’s stopped in front of a building with a blue roof, the archery range. 

The woman at the front desk greeted Sugawara with no hesitation. “Outdoors today?” She read him like an open book, knowing that Suga shot outside when he was frustrated. Shot outside, where no one would see him. 

“Yes, ma’am.” His breathing was almost back to normal, the familiar air of the reception building made him feel at ease. He wasn’t on the sidelines here, no, here Suga was a champion.

The woman sighed when he turned to leave, “Trouble with your other sport? Volleyball, was it?” She smiled, Suga liked the way her eyes crinkled when she did, he found it comforting. “You know, you can always talk to me. I may be old, but I can offer good advice!” She went off on a tangent, musing over her own days on the high school softball team. Suga turned his gaze away from her light blue eyes. 

He tried to force a smile, “Maybe another time.” He didn’t wait for her reply, slipping out of the door and into the storage room before she could. Suga didn’t want to talk about what was bothering him. Didn’t want to think, just wanted to feel. Just wanted to get rid of these blue feelings.

Rows of cases lined one wall of the storage room, on the other were quivers, arrows, and practice bows for lessons. He strood into the empty space and made a beeline for his case, stopping for a moment to pull a glove and arm guard from a bucket near the door. He slipped the guard on, ignoring the blue bruise on his arm from the last time he’d shot. His case was on the second row of the shelf, the fading, taped nametag Sugawara peeking out at him. The black plastic case slid off of the shelf with little resistance, and Suga lowered the object to the ground. 

He cracked the case open. Suga shot a recurve, his bow lay in pieces in the case, ready to be assembled. It had a wooden riser, or body, and two silver limbs. His dad had gotten the bow painted for him years ago, bits of darker paint could be seen cutting through in certain spots. He bent at the hip and assembled the weapon, sliding the case away when he was finished. 

A field style quiver was taken from the wall. Suga preferred this kind when he shot on the forest trail, as he could move around easier in tight spaces and was able to reach the arrows better than when he used a back quiver. The leather tool was strapped to his belt, filled with carbon arrows with bright, plastic fletching. He used his right hand to shoot, the bow would be held in his left hand and be pulled back by his right. Suga snapped the quiver to his belt, on his right side, and ventured back out under the blue, blue sky. 

Holding his bow is like getting a breath of air. The blue of the target forces his attention towards it, Suga shakes his head and pulls the bowstring taught. Shooting blue isn’t what he came here to do. 

The target has a series of colored rings about it. The outermost ring is white, then black. Then the colors go blue, red, and yellow in the center. His hand tightens on the weapon, he breathes and the arrow rips away the blue feelings inside him. It sticks in the second inner ring, only inches from the bullseye. 

Suga’s world fades to gray, like static on a TV station. The sky turns a gray, the hair in his eyes is gray. The silver bow in his hands shakes, and Suga doesn’t know if he should be happy or sad that the color has gone from his world. 

Another arrow flies from his bow, this time striking one ring from the center. Suga stops at two, pulling them from the target and venturing deeper into the forest. The quiver on his hip bounces with each step he takes, knocks against his hip and fills the quiet wood with the sound of metal on metal. 

A target peeks out from between two trees, Suga stops a bit under fifty yards away. The leather of his glove softens the strain of pulling the string back, keeps Suga from getting blisters on his fingertips. He lets his eyes focus for a beat longer than they should, he releases the arrow and watches it embed itself in the center. He does it again, and again, until three arrows are stuck around the center of the target. 

The boy should be happy, he was shooting incredibly, but Sugawara only felt numb. His blue feelings of sadness and regret had faded, replaced by the gray lack of emotion. It was better this way, Suga thought, better to feel nothing at all than anger at himself or jealousy at Kageyama. 

The boy walks back to the storage room on gray concrete, with a handful of gray arrows. He puts away his gray bow and wonders when the color would come back. 

→

“Oh? And what do we have here?”

The honeyed voice reaches Sugawara Koushi’s ears over the tumultuous symphony of noise that is the junior archers class. It’s an outdoor event, a handful of children bundled up and wielding practice recurve bows as they follow Suga to the targets. He’d only agreed because Ms. Izumi, the woman who ran the range, had promised him two thousand yen for his service. He’d much rather be home. The morning is cold and he has long since lost feeling in the tips of his toes.

His world is still gray. One of the junior archers has a gray scarf around their neck, another wearing silver earrings. He wonders why the color has not come back to his world yet. Was it because he was keeping himself from feeling anything? Or perhaps because he was feeling a bit depressed over losing his position as the official setter of Karasuno? 

Suga turns, distracted, “Are you just coming in? Just file into the line and𑁋” His voice trails off, and he stares unabashedly at the person who’d spoken. His smile falters, because that is most definitely _Oikawa Tooru_ who’s staring at him with a smile and cocked eyebrow. Suga nods at a familiar parent, trying to conjure the words to deal with this chance encounter. “Sorry, but I think you may be a bit old for the junior class.” The man smiles, his eyes alight with a playful fire. 

“Very funny, Refreshing-kun, but I _do_ have a nephew.” He tugs at the shirt of a young boy, urging him into the conversation. Suga knows the child, he’d been there before and Suga quite likes him. He was a good kid, and Suga would have never guessed his uncle would be the infamous Grand King. “This is𑁋”

“Takeru.” Suga grins at the child, “I’ve instructed him before, actually. Your sister usually brings him, though.” It was almost a question. Suga calls over his shoulder, “Twelve arrows, guys!” He’d brought the boxes of arrows down, figured it be easier to fill quivers here than have a mad dash of children trying to get them while they were stuffed in the equipment room. 

Oikawa watches as Takeru moves to stand in the line of children, his quiver bouncing on his hip. There was a target standing just past the treeline that the kids had been steered too first. “She’s sick.” His features shift into a pout. “Why? Not happy to see me?”

“I never said that,” Suga delivers a swift punch to Oikawa’s upper arm and cackles as he flinches. “I’m happy to show off, I can’t be a better setter than you, but I can shoot circles around ya. Also, drop the _Refreshing-kun_ , call me Suga.” He gives a toothy grin, turning back to the line of eagerly waiting junior archers. 

Suga claps his hands once, twice. “Alright, everyone! How about we get this show on the road?” There’s a chorus of cheers from all around, puffs of white air forming tiny clouds across flushed faces. “Parents! You’re free to stay, or you can wait in the car.” Suga lifts his own bow from his case and takes twelve arrows for his quiver. 

At the front of the line is a small Ayame, her hand already seeking an arrow. “Kozue-san, please step back five steps.” He spreads his hands apart, “Big ones! We need to give Ayame-san some room,” He fakes a whisper, as though he is speaking only to Kozue. “I’m afraid if you’re too close she might knock you out when she draws back.”

He hears the boy giggle, the rest of the line and Ayame join in. “Okay!” Kozue exaggeratedly steps back, “One. Two. Three. Four. Five!” He looks to Suga for approval. 

“Perfect.” Suga nods to Ayame, “Go ahead and shoot. Whenever you’re ready.” 

She pulls back the bow with a little effort, the training bow must be a tad too heavy for her, and he sees that she’s using a red bow, one made for teenagers. She is able to steady her arm when she pulls all the way back, Suga nods to himself and resolves to let her use this one for now. She breathes in, exhales, and then the arrow is sticking in the white space under the target, close to missing. “Aw, man. I let go too early.”

Suga dips his head, “I’d say so, but you know what you did wrong, and that’s very good. It was still a nice shot.” He loves the way he is able to inspire happiness in people, his praise causing a great grin to stretch across the girl’s face. “Alright, Kozue.”

The young boy strode up to where Ayame had been standing, his strides confident. He looks to Suga for confirmation, and pulls back when Suga nods. His arm is steady, he takes a breath, and releases his grip. As soon as the string slips from his fingers, the boy lets the arm holding his bow soften. The tail of the arrow catches on the bow, throws the arrow off target and into the bushes. “Ah!” He stomps his foot, “What’d I do this time?” 

“Did you stay strong until the very end?” Suga leans down, taps his chin thoughtfully. 

“Apparently not.”

The ashen-haired archer laughs, Kozue had always been good at saying the right thing at the right times. “Well, just keep it in mind for later.” The boy tried to step forwards, making for his arrow, but Suga thrust an arm in front of him. “Remember, no fetching lost arrows until we’re all done. You could get hurt otherwise.”

“Oh!” Kozue dips his head, the red flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. “I forgot.”

“It’s okay, who’s next? Rui?”

Rui is a tall girl, already in middle school. Almost ready for the young adult class. She’s confident in her ability to shoot, knocks an arrow with no hesitation. Rui doesn’t wait for Suga’s _okay,_ simply checking downrange and letting the arrow fly. It strikes red, one ring away from the center. “Argh!” She throws her hands up, her bow hitting her cheek and knocking her head backwards.

Oikawa's the only guardian who stayed to watch, his eyes go wide and he takes a step forward. Suga chuckles, holds a hand up to stop the other high schooler and shakes his head. Rui did this often, she was as clumsy as she was bold. “Are you okay, Rui?” 

“Yes! I was off a bit, but I’ll get it next time!” She pumps a fist in the air, slaps the next boy in line on the back. 

Kenji stumbles forwards and waits for his teacher. Kenji is green, just as Suga used to be, barely eight years old and only shooting for the second time. Suga kneels down beside the boy, holds his arm as Kenji struggles to pull back. He waits until Kenji is steady before whispering, “Now.” The arrow flies, embedding in the wood behind where the target is tacked up. “A little wide, but we’ll work on it.” Suga pats the child's head, ruffling his blonde hair. “Good job!”

The boy beams, steps back behind Rui and waits for the last child to shoot. 

Sugawara watches Oikawa as Takeru steps up, noticing the way he studies the boy’s movements. Takeru moves fluidly, a trait that he learned in volleyball, like river water over stone. He pulls the bowstring until it’s taught, focuses on a point Suga cannot see, and lets his fingers fall open. The arrow lands in the blue, on the outermost edge, just a tad shy of the red. To Suga’s surprise, the boy turns to Oikawa and calls out a, “See that, old man?”

He slaps a hand over his face to stifle his laughter at Oikawa’s shocked face. Takeru had never acted this way with his mother, this cheeky attitude a new experience for Sugawara. “That was a good shot, Takeru!” 

“Don’t praise him, Suga-chan!” Something clicks in Suga’s mind when Oikawa calls his name, and a hint of yellow dances in the corner of his vision. 

A car passes on the road beyond the archery field, the air holds a new crispness in it as a breeze plays at their hair. Suga envies the parents in their warm cars, envies Ms. Izumi in the indoor area𑁋 even if the heat only half works and makes a sound like a dying cat when it turns on. He rubs his hands together, wishing for a pair of gloves, and waits for the children to gather their arrows. When no one moves he cocks his head. “Did I forget someone?”

Rui slaps a hand over her forehead, and Ayame giggles. Kozue scrunches up his nose, “ _You_ didn’t shoot yet, Sugawara-sensei.” 

_Oh._ Suga laughs, “Silly me, forgetting myself!” He reaches for an arrow and the trainees step backwards.

If Takeru were the rapids of the river over jagged rocks, then Suga was the dead calm of an untouched pool of water. There were no falters, no gaps in his form. He knocks an arrow and draws back. His lungs fill with air, he exhales. An arrow sticks out from the yellow circle of the target, a tad bit lower than the exact center. 

There’s a whistle behind him, Oikawa has a look in his eyes that Suga can’t quite decipher. Was it admiration, awe? He couldn’t put a finger on it, but it looked like Hinata when he watched Asahi spike. He notices a yellow sunflower on the man’s shirt for the first time. Suga clicks his tongue, mind straying. “Which target should we shoot at next?” 

It’s nearly dark by the time they return to the storage room. The winter months have shortened the days, it’s only five when Suga checks his phone. He watches the students to make sure they hang their bows up correctly, counts each arrow that’s replaced and tallies any missing. 

Ayame and Kenji leave first, they wave goodbye and sprint into the warmth of their parent’s cars. Kozue is next, and Rui quickly follows. Suga waits for Takeru and Oikawa to leave, so he can lock up the storage room for tonight, but he finds that the star setter lingers. “Is something the matter?” 

“Are you that eager to get rid of me?”

“Hmm, considering it’s cold and I want to go home to shower? Yes.”

Oikawa smiles, it’s warm and not unlike the sun on a summer day. “I have a proposition to make.” He pauses, and Suga wonders if the boy is waiting for him to respond. Takeru plays on his phone, lost in the world of mobile games as his uncle rambles. The yellow lights of the storage room cast a halo around Oikawa’s head. 

“...Oh, Yeah?”

“You want to be a better setter, right?” His eyes crinkle as he smiles, Suga steps closer, intrigued. From this close he can the barest hint of freckles dusting across Oikawa’s cheeks. “Well _I_ want to learn how to shoot. Do you catch my drift?”

“Not particularly.” Suga teases, he knows exactly what Oikawa is implying, but he wants to play.

The other rolls his eyes, “Don’t kid with me, Suga-chan.”

“Are you saying we should,” Suga squints his eyes, hoping he hasn’t taken this the wrong way, “teach each other?”

“Exactly!”

“Why would you want to shoot?” Suga moves around Oikawa to slide his bow case onto the shelf. There’s a spider in the corner of the shelf, Suga wonders if it’ll survive the winter. The heat switched on, a loud clatter of noise over the sounds of Oikawa’s voice and Takeru playing his mobile game. “What benefit would that have?”

Oikawa tapped his cheek, crossing the room to lean beside Suga. “I want to impress Takeru, he’s really into this, you know.” He sighs, “I thought I would impress him with volleyball, but he said _anyone_ can serve like I can.” His features shift into a pout. “If I can shoot a bullseye, he’ll _have_ to say I’m cool.” Suga can’t decide if Oikawa’s reason is endearing or childish.

“And what would you teach me?”

“I’ll make you into a service ace.” Oikawa hums, fishing his phone from his pocket. “You have some sort of ridiculous strength. We just need to channel it.” He opens the contact list on the device, holding it out to Suga, “I can’t teach you much other than that, wouldn’t want to become _too_ cozy with the enemy.” He grins, teeth flashing.

Suga takes the phone from Oikawa’s hands, typing his number in and handing his own phone to the other. “I guess that’s a fair trade. I have Sundays off from practice.” He watches as the Aoba Johsai setter adds a yellow emoji by his name, Suga can’t quite tell but he thinks it’s a flower. 

“I’m only free Monday, but maybe I could pick you up after club?”

“You just want to piss Kageyama off.” 

“Is that a no?”

“I didn’t say that.” Suga wonders if he’s making a mistake. He hadn’t told his team that he practiced archery. “Just, this is kind of a secret. Leave out the archery part, we’ll just say I got you to help me with my serves.” Suga didn’t need his teammates to know that he shot because he was frustrated, he had told Ukai it was okay he was replaced and he wanted to keep up that facade. 

“ _Now that_ will most definitely piss Tobio-chan off. I’m all for it!” Oikawa motions for Takeru to stand up, “I’ll see you Monday.” 

“It’s a date.”

And suddenly Suga’s cold, gray world now holds a vibrant yellow. 

→

Sugawara’s eyes are full of red. 

The uniform he wears is red, the lights above him are red, the target meters away from his bow is red. Red, red, _red._

It was his first _big_ competition, his first time actually competing against other skilled archers his age. There was even a prize, first place in his division earned a rather generous sum of money, and Suga had already decided that the money was going to be _his_. Nationals for the volleyball club were right around the corner, and that money could buy him a new pair of sneakers to replace his old, beat-up ones. 

His world of red was unnerving, making him anxious, yet Suga found the color sparked a certain intensity within his blood. It was like he was standing on the volleyball court, or running a marathon, his blood is pumping and his veins are full of adrenaline. 

He knows Oikawa is in the crowd somewhere. The other setter had driven behind the archery bus and Suga had looked out the back window and watched the Seijoh student’s face for the duration of the ride, despite his teammate’s constant teasing. Oikawa had chronic road rage, and Sugawara thought it was hilarious to see Oikawa’s face contort into annoyance at the slightest of disturbances. Plus, every so often Tooru would see the archer staring and throw Suga one of his signature heartbreaker grins. He wants to see Oikawa in the crowd, but there’s too many people and the stands contort into a blob of red the longer Suga stares. 

An hour has passed since the competition started, the younger archers competing first. Suga stands next to a boy from Korea, donning a red uniform not unlike Suga’s and a look of boredom. Suga had tried to pull the boy into a conversation a while back, but was promptly ignored. There were two other boys from Japan shooting with him, they chittered back and forth throughout the entirety of the contest, whose names were Atsumu Miya and Morisuke Yaku. 

Soon he was stepping up to a line on the floor, a target standing stark 18 meters away. Miya was up first, the boy pulls an arrow from his quiver and knocked it in his bow, pulling the string taut. There are three targets on the sheet of paper, three circles stacked one on top of the other with only the barest strip of white in between. The blonde had never been good with the loud ferocity of the crowd, but when Suga glances at his face the boy is all sharp edges and total concentration. Miya breathes in, so loud that Suga can hear it from where he stands behind the boy, and exhales. The arrow strikes the farthest tip of the closest ring on the target, just a few inches shy of a bullseye. 

He’s up next, rocking back and forth on his legs in an attempt to dissipate his nerves. The middle target calls to him, the red of the middle ring on it a beacon in Suga’s eyes. He knocks his arrow and pulls the string, waiting until his hand steadies enough for him to focus. The arrow flies from his bow as quick as lightning, hitting the center ring in a blink of the eye. He’s just a few centimeters closer than Miya. Relief floods his senses, and for the first time since the competition started he’s able to take a deep breath. He turns his head to look at the scoreboard, his arrow has pushed the score to an even 28, only one point away from tying with the team in the lead. 

Yaku is fluid in his movements as he steps to the line. The boy had always been more confident than Suga and Miya, nerves nonexistent and unbothered by the roar of the crowd behind them (although, under that stoic face was a competitiveness Suga knew all too well). He knocks an arrow and holds the bow up, eyes narrowed as he calculates his shot. They only had two minutes to shoot their arrows, and Suga and Miya had already used up a minute and thirty seconds. He’ll have to shoot in that last thirty seconds, but Suga has seen the boy knock an arrow and land a decent score in ten, so he doesn’t worry much. Suga watches his chest expand as the boy breathes, and then Yaku’s arrow is stuck in the red part of the target. Eight points this time, instead of the nines that Suga and Miya had scored. “Ah, damn.” He scuffs his foot on the ground. 

“Don’t mind!” The words are slipping out from behind Suga’s lips before he can even process them. He’d explained his volleyball terminology to his two teammates when they’d first started shooting together, but he still flushes when he uses the lingo. 

Yaku waves his hand back and forth. “I’ll do better next time.” The coach laughs at that and begins instructing the archer on where he went wrong. Suga steps beside Miya and watches the Chinese team with eagle-like focus. They shoot around the same number of points, only two more than Suga’s team. Korea is next. They’re good, Suga had been told, and they shoot better than all the teams so far. Three more sets of shooting to go. Suga grips his bow, a look of determination sparking in his golden eyes. 

Japan’s team ends up in third place, _last place._ It’s like a punch to the gut, and Suga finds himself choking back tears. The red dominating his world has turned from exhilaration to anger, anger at himself for not being good enough, anger at Yaku for fumbling the first set. He shakes his head as the national anthem starts and bows his head. It’s not anyone’s fault in particular, he shouldn’t blame Yaku for something Suga had done countless times before. 

Bronze medals are placed over the heads of his team, the metal is cold and it seeps through Suga’s jersey and chills his skin. It’s a comfortable weight, but he wishes it were gold, or even silver. A woman places a large coin in Suga’s palm as she shakes his hand, a gift from the city that held the event. As the other teams get their medals Suga lets his eyes drift to the stands. 

There’s so many people, it’s hard to tell one body from the next, but sure enough Oikawa catches the archer’s attention. He stands at the front of the stands, as close as he can be to Suga, and waves his arms back and forth. Sugawara tries hard to keep the laugh contained in his chest, his boyfriend looks positively ridiculous in championship merch and doing everything possible to get Suga’s attention.

Then Sugawara sees the yellow knee brace around Oikawa’s leg. 

The red world crashes down around him, leaving nothing but that yellow. It’s not the yellow he was used to seeing from the star setter, no this yellow was _bitter._ Bitter, like unstable stars and sour lemons. Bitter because the taste of loss sat heavy on both their tongues. 

They were both so far from their goals. 

→

Sugawara Koushi qualifies for the Olympics at age 23. 

The crowd chants behind him, Miya and Yaku smile beside him (miracuously they’d stuck together all these years), and the weight of gold is heavy against his chest. The World Archery Championships had been a struggle to get into, and even harder to win, but Suga stood in the center of the room and the taste of victory was heavy in his mouth. The feeling of winning is something unlike any other. It’s all encompassing, eating away at his body from head to toe, causing a smile bloom across his face and making his foot tap in nervous excitement. 

Once he slips into the car he finally relaxes, and his body practically melts into the crisp, leather seats of the vehicle. He’d gone drinking in celebration with the team, Miya is currently drunk and leaning out the window over Yaku’s lap, and the coach talks loudly with the chauffeur in the front seat. 

In the lowlight his phone screen is like a beacon, the brightness causing his eyes to water, he quickly turns it down. The device reads _11:02,_ Suga calculates the time in Argentina in his head and swipes the phone open. Four hours ahead, it would be three in the morning where Oikawa was. He wants to call, he really does, but he doesn’t want to wake his boyfriend up. He _had_ just qualified for the Olympics, though.

His finger hovers over the _call_ button beside his boyfriend’s name. His eyes wander to the profile picture he’d sent for Tooru. The setter had his back to the camera, a halo of pink and gold cast around his head as the sun began to set. It was the day of their first date, Suga had shown Oikawa the basics of shooting archery and in return Oikawa had shown Suga how to do a jump serve. They’d gotten ice cream after that, chocolate and spice flavor for Suga and plain vanilla for Oikawa. After Suga snapped the picture, Oikawa had turned around with a face smeared with ice cream and demanded the photo to be deleted. But here it was, years later. 

Suga presses call.

The phone rings once, twice, three times before Oikawa picks up. There’s a yawn, “Hey, Koushiii,” his words are slurred with sleep. “Did’ja win?” 

“I did.” Suga twirls a strand of hair around his finger, his cheeks coloring a soft pink. “Surprised?” 

Oikawa’s voice sounds almost mechanical through the phone. The hum of an air conditioner can be heard in the background and Suga wonders how Oikawa even sleeps with the thing. “I knew ya would!” There’s a ruffling sound, like Oikawa is getting up or rolling over, “Congrats, Mr. Refreshing.” 

“Well, it’s only time. You knew you were going last week!” He switches the phone to his other ear, laughing, “About time I caught up.” 

Another yawn. “Now it’s just a race to see who gets gold first. If I win, you have to clean the flat for a month.” 

“Don’t I already do that?” 

“Hold on now𑁋” 

Suga buts in, “Calm down, we can argue in the morning.” He feels something hit his side and he throws a dirty look at the drunk Miya next to him. “Just wanted to let you know.” He likes the way Oikawa’s sleepy voice sounds, all deep and rounded. He could listen to it for hours, but Oikawa’s tiredness is contagious and Suga soon finds yawns slipping from his own mouth. 

There’s a laugh on the other side of the line. He mocks a pompous voice,“I suppose we can postpone until a later date.” The sound of horns and city life make it hard to hear the other man’s voice, and Suga is forced to cup a hand over the ear not by the phone in an effort to hear Oikawa. “Really though, good job. I’m proud of you! We’re a real powerhouse couple now.” He goes off on a tangent about how ‘Tobio-chan’ could never, and a grin plays at the edge of the archer’s lips. 

“I love you, Tooru.” That pink feeling is back, the same emotion he’d felt on that first date so long ago. Pink compassion and pink playfulness. Pink for warmth, for calmness, for love. “Get some rest.” 

“Love you too. I’ll call you first thing, so you better be awake!” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

A click sounds as Oikawa hangs up. Sugawara lets his eyes fall shut and his head lean back onto the headrest. He misses Oikawa, missed his touch, his laughter, and even his stupid sense of fashion. He thinks of the times spent in their little flat in Tokyo. Of the days spent in bed because they were too lazy to get up, or the nights they danced across the kitchen floor. The cactus on their windowsill would need water, he’d asked Asahi to do it but he figured the man would forget. The windows would have dust on them, the corners of the rooms would be strung with cobwebs, as if their apartment was some clearance halloween center. He missed his home. The home he’d created with Tooru. 

A hand flops over his lap and suddenly Sugawara is tethered back to the present moment. The fuzzy pink warmth starts to fade as the world around him comes back into focus. Miya is babbling on about some redhead he’d had a fling with in highschool, and Yaku has headphones in his ears in an effort to dispel Miya’s emotional, one-on-one conversation. 

“I wub him!” Miya has started to sob into Suga’s shoulder, “Sugawara-sannn!”

Suga thumbs open a text from Oikawa, sent right after the call had ended. It’s some little cartoon plant holding a heart, the words _we’re mint to be_ written underneath. Suga scoffs and pockets the device, turning to Atsumu, “I understand the feeling.” 

→

The sun pulls sweat to Suga’s skin despite the canopy set up above his head. It’s hot𑁋 his uniform clings to his body like a second skin. Yaku and Atsumu stand beside him, Yaku pulls his collar back and forth in an effort to generate wind and Atsumu drags a hand across his forehead to wipe the sweat from his eyes. 

A mechanical voice announces that the Women’s ranking matches have finished, and that the Men’s competition will be conducted shortly. Suga follows Yaku as the shorter man steps up to their designated spot. They’re in slot number six, near the middle of the field, surrounded by enemy teams on all sides. There’s 36 competitors in total, twelve teams made up of three archers. Suga glances nervously at one of the teams that bordered him. The jarring, orange uniform of Spain floods his vision, the amber color only amplifying his nerves. He takes a deep breath. Then another. No use getting cold feet now, he supposed. 

Atsumu steps up to shoot as the announcer calls for the first archers. He’d drawn the shortest straw when they had sat on the hotel bed and gambled over the shooting order. Suga smiles smugly, he’d be going last. 

“Don’t mess up,” Yaku starts his usual teasing in an effort to rile Atumu up. “We’re counting on you, Kansai-ben-kun!” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Atsumu waves a hand back and forth, plucking an arrow from his quiver. At once the air is full of the whizzing noise the arrows make as they fly from competitor’s bows, and just under that sound is the noise of the arrows sinking into the targets. In moments Atsumu is out of arrows, all but one stuck in the yellow part of the target. He looks in the telescope set up beside them and assesses the score. “Tens for the most part, some nines and an eight sprinkled in as well.” The announcer says something about Atsumu over the intercom, but Suga can’t quite make it out. 

Yaku brushes past the blonde with fluid grace. “I guess you _can_ shoot.” 

“Oi𑁋” 

“Now let me show you what your senpai is capable of.” Suga tries to stifle his laughs as Yaku steps forwards and draws back his bow. The title _demon senpai_ Yaku had earned at their young archer’s training camp was still applicable today, it seems. Suga watches Yaku each time the man pulls back his bow, eyes focusing on his unwavering stance. Unlike Sugawara, who took the tiniest of steps forwards when he let an arrow fly, Yaku never let his bow lead him forward. The target soon looks like a pen cushion, arrows embedded into the paper like needles or the spines on a porcupine. Yaku lands solely in the yellow, his score a mix of nines and tens. 

Sweat beads on silver hair, falling like rain on Suga’s heat soaked skin. He can feel his arms shake under the strain of drawing back his bowstring𑁋 he had practised late into the night yesterday and the effects were starting to show. In the corner of his eye he saw that blaring, orange uniform. It made him restless, the orange heavy in his sight and pulling his attention away from the target that lay 70-meters away. His hand slips a fraction of an inch, and then there’s an arrow embedded in the blue portion of the target. He bites his lip, tasting iron. 

The last arrow strikes yellow, and a buzzer cuts through the air like a knife. Each team lays their bows to rest on the stands provided and steps out onto the field. They cross the expanse of freshly mowed grass to retrieve their arrows. He feels a hand on his back, he thinks it's Yaku, but he doesn’t turn to look. He feels disappointed that he hadn’t been able to keep up with his teammates, but he lets a smile rest on his face as he turns to face them. 

“Well done!” They place the arrows back into their quivers. “I think we’re pretty well off, yeah?” 

Yaku cocks his head, “Yeah, you’re one arrow in the blue isn’t gonna hurt us much.” He points towards a target two rows down, where four arrows stick out from the blue. 

“Looks like the scores should be pretty tight, everyone’s shooting similar.” Atsumu adjusts the belt keeping the quiver attached to his waist. The announcer calls for the archers to return to the sidelines, as new targets are pushed in to score the individual women’s shooters. “We can only hope that we made the cut.” 

His words hang heavy in the air, Suga’s nerves rise and he can feel his stomach churn. Yaku plucks an arrow from the center of the target, “We’ll make it. We always do.”

→

“Really, Tooru?” 

“What?” 

Suga huffs, “You said we were gonna celebrate the both of us moving onto the quarterfinals…” He trails off, taking in his surroundings. 

“We are!” Oikawa scoffs and shakes his head, “What’s not to love about a 7/11? They have _everything!_ ” He holds the door open for Suga and slips in behind him. “We can get bentos _and_ go to the park outside!” 

“You’re insufferable,” Suga barks out a laugh and swats Oikawa’s shoulder lightly. “The only time we really get to see each other until the games end and we meet at a convenience store.” His harsh words are betrayed by the playful smile that tugs at his lips. “You’re paying, Mr. Rich Volleyball player.”

Oikawa hums, fishing out his wallet. “I’m fine with that.”

The store is lit in a bright yellow light, empty except for the two of them and a tired looking clerk. It’s already dark outside, the street lights flicker on and the foot traffic starts to die down. The archer settles into a squat beside the row of bentos, giggling as he feels his boyfriend lean against his back. There’s not much to choose from, the bentos had been mostly picked clean, but there’s one with garlic chicken left. Suga plucks it from the shelf, holding it over his shoulder to Oikawa. “They have the flavor you like.” 

“Thank you, honey!” Oikawa feins a lovey-dovey voice, snatching the food from Suga’s outstretched hand. “Anything you want?” 

“Hmm, not really.” 

“Want an egg sandwich then?” 

“Yeah,” Suga stands, sighing as his knees pop, and lets his head rest on Oikawa’s shoulder. “Can I get a cream puff?” 

“Only if I can have a bite.” 

Suga lets his head fall away from Oikawa’s warmth as he hunts for the sandwich section. There’s a row of them in the refrigerated aisle, nestled in-between the ice cream and ready-made salads. He takes the one with egg salad and snatches a cream puff from the dessert area. Oikawa has already gotten drinks for the two of them and stands at the counter waiting. He’s making idle chatter with the worker, something about a new album from the sound of it. 

“Did you get everything you wanted, Kou-chan?” The setter takes a card from his wallet as Suga approaches. 

The silver-haired man nods, waving a hand through the air. He lets his hips bump against Oikawa’s, and a pink sort of feeling starts to settle over his mind. Their fingers brush together, Suga’s hands are always ice-cold, and he can feel the heat radiate off of Oikawa. He wants to wind their fingers together, wants to hold the setter’s hand as they walk down the street, but he pulls away. He couldn’t relax yet, not until the games were over. 

Cars drone past and the sound of the city’s nightlife fills the air. The park is quaint, small, but picturesque. There’s a fountain in the center of the square, what remains of spring flowers dot the grass, and lights strung throughout the trees cast a halo of light around their heads. 

It’s still overwhelmingly hot, Suga’s is pressed flush to Oikawa and when he gets up to throw their trash away their skin sticks together uncomfortably. A breeze starts to pick up, chilling the sweat on Sugawara’s skin and making him shiver. Oikawa casts an arm over the other man and cocks his head. “Cold?” 

Suga flicks a bit of rice from Oikawa’s cheek. “A bit.” He lets his legs stretch out in front of him, reclining in the metal bench they’re situated on. “Who do you play tomorrow?” 

Oikawa closes his eyes, eyebrows furrowing. “America. They have a pretty good libero, so I’m a bit worried that they’ll be able to dig my serves. Just a bit, though, I’m still pretty confident in myself.” 

“I know you are,” Suga punches him in the shoulder softly, “Better make sure you make it to the final match. If you don’t you’ll have to suffer my punishment.” He turns his head towards Oikawa, their eyes meeting in a dance of gold and amber. “I still haven’t decided what I’m going to make you do𑁋”

“You make it sound like I’ve already lost!”

“𑁋but, I am liking the idea of you doing the chores for a month.” Suga grins, a teasing smile on his face. “I’m also pretty confident in myself.” 

_“I’ll say.”_ The setter leans his head back, watching people roam past on the road outside the gate. “I’m going to keep playing forever.” He lets a hand rest on his knee, grasping at his skin until it’s red. “No matter what.” 

Suga replaces Oikawa’s hand with his own, rubbing soothing circles on the area the man had grabbed. “Of course you will. You’re nothing if not stubborn. And the best setter I know, but that’s beside the point.” 

“Can’t argue with you on that.” Oikawa leans back upright, bringing a hand to poke at Suga’s cheeks. “Hey, Kou-chan?” 

“Hmm?” Suga bats at Oikawa’s hand. 

“Let’s win gold.” 

“Of course.” 

→

In the short slot of time before the match for the gold medal, Suga stands in the narrow hallway that leads out onto the field and clasps hands with Oikawa. 

“You’ve got this, Kou-chan,” Oikawa has repeated the same phrase five times now, but Suga finds it endearing. “I’ll try to meet you afterwards.” 

“Don’t worry about me, focus on your match,” Suga strokes the top of the other’s hand absentmindedly, “Brazil is a tough opponent, I wouldn’t want to distract you.” He winks, cheeks dusting a light pink. 

Oikawa laughs, “You’re always on my mind, Koushi Sugawara, you might as well start paying rent!” They’re both laughing now, giggling in that empty hallway like grade schoolers who’d skipped class. 

“How romantic!” Suga lets his hands fall to his sides, the clock on the wall telling him it’s time to go. “I’ll see you soon, you better win that match, _oh great and mighty_ Grand King!” He presses a quick kiss to the corner of the setter’s mouth and steps away, backing up to the door that leads outside. 

“Same goes for you, Mr. Refreshing! You’re cleaning for a week if you don’t!”

“Don’t sound so sure of yourself, you could still get bronze!” Suga slips out the door, making a face at his boyfriend through the glass. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Oikawa trails off, a hand raised in farewell as he watches Suga disappear into the crowd. 

→

Three days later Suga stands on that same green field and stares out at the targets lined up across it like ducks in a row. He’s waited for this moment his entire life— every arrow he’d shot, every target he’d set his sights on— everything has led to this moment.

They’d shot their way through the ranking rounds and through the quarterfinals. Now, Suga holds his bow high and head higher as he marches to the mark on the field, where he would either stand a winner or a loser. Atsumu beams on one side of him, all cocky grins and nervous excitement. On the other side stands Yaku, eyebrows furrowed in concentration and an aura of calm radiating from him. 

Six arrows rest in Sugawara’s quiver. The tails on the arrow tickle the strip of skin where his uniform rides up, the soft feeling tethering him to the present moment. It’s hard not to get overwhelmed𑁋 there’s a stand full of chittering onlookers and the Korean team beside them shows no signs of being nervous. He balls his hands into fists, squeezing until his nails bite into the soft flesh of his hand. His eyes focused on the center of the target in front of him. He wouldn’t back down. 

Each match consisted of four sets of 6 arrows, two per archer. The team with the highest score in the set, the total of the six arrows, receives two set points; if the teams are tied, each receives one set point. The first team to five set points wins the match. Suga supposes it’s a bit like volleyball, as far as getting set points goes. 

An announcer breaks out over the field. The archers are steered to their respective marks, and the Korean team knocks an arrow first. The first man on the team pulls back, the string taut and Suga swears he can feel the power thrumming off of it. His fingers fall open and the arrow embeds itself in the yellow. Ten points. He draws back once more. Another ten points. 

His teammate steps up to shoot. He’s a wiry man, and Suga isn’t quite sure he’ll be able to pull the weight of his bow. He hadn’t really focused on the other archer until now, he was far more worried about his own team. As he pulls the bowstring back, his arms shake minutely, but sure enough the man shoots twenty points as well as the man before him. The next man follows suit, adding twenty more points to the scoreboard. 

Iron is heavy in Suga’s mouth. His world fades to white𑁋 the white of their country’s flags, the white of the clouds above him, the white of targets ahead of him. White, white, white. It’s all so pristine, so empty and cold. 

He feels movement beside him, hands against his back pushing him forwards. When he turns, Atsumu and Yaku stand behind him, a barrier against the crowd. They urge him forwards, until he’s able to stand on his own. They always have, that is, been there to support him, and today is no different. He focuses on the center of the target, letting the X in the center draw all of his focus. The bow string pulls back as easy as a knife through warm butter, and Sugawara’s arms do not shake as he holds steady. He aims, letting his instinct lead him to the yellow center when all his eyes can make out is that pristine white. A deep breath in, out, and the arrow flies. 

It’s as though all the color is ripped away from him as the arrow springs from his bow. It’s an explosion, a storm of every hue imaginable. There's the dark roots of Atsumu’s hair, the blue sky above, the green grass beneath his feet. And the yellow on the target where his arrow sticks out from. A bullseye. 

“Nice job, Kou-kun!” 

“One more time, Suga!” 

He hears his teammates behind him, the roar of the crowd over the announcer’s voice, the wind through the trees. He lets his body steady, willing his heart to cease its hammering in his chest. He draws back, the target moves in and out of focus as his eyes calculate the distance, and lets his fingers fall open. Another ten. 

A smile tugs at the edges of his lips, turning into a wide beam as he turns to face his team. They try to reign in their excitement, but breathless laughter can be heard in all their voices. “Don’t let me get all the glory now,” He teases, “Better shoot more tens, Blondie!” 

“Of course I will,” Atsumu steps up to shoot, calling over his shoulder, “Just who do you think you’re dealing with?” He knocks an arrow, he pulls back and stops, and the crowd falls silent. The low murmur of people chatting back to forth ceases, and even the announcer stays quiet. It was a certain ritual Atsumu had, unable to concentrate with any sort of cheering or screaming in the background. His arm is as steady as stone, unwavering under the strain of the bowstring. He releases, arrow landing in the red. Eight points. 

“Come on, come on.” Yaku chants beside Suga, the words barely a whisper. 

Atsumu pulls back once more, eyes alight with a fierce determination. A breath in, an exhale, in and out. In and out. His fingers fly open and Suga watches as the arrow meets the ten point mark on the target. Atsumu lays the bow to rest on the stand provided and rubs circles into his temples. The eight points would pull them back, but Suga held onto the idea of winning gold. It wasn’t over yet.

Golden cat eyes blink the sun from their eyes. Yaku cracks his knuckles and takes his bow from the stand. There’s no more idle conversation among them, they're far too focused for that now, Suga can feel the tension hang heavy around them. Yaku raises his red bow and takes aim, the rise and fall of his chest a steady movement in Suga’s sight. The shorter man narrows his eyes, his fingers let go, and the arrow lies in the ten point margin. One more arrow left in this set. Yaku knocks the arrow, pulling the bowstring back until the string meets his mouth. An exhale, and the arrow is stuck stark in the yellow of the target, just outside the center circle. A nine. 

Suga is getting nervous all over again. They were only three points behind, but even the smallest of point differences could lose them the games. He rubs his hands back and forth as the Korean archer steps forwards again, desperately trying to warm his ever-cold fingers. He adjusts the glove on his hand. The Korean archer shoots a total of nineteen points. He adjusts his glove once more. Another forty points for the Korean team. 

His turn again. It feels as though the weight of Japan is settled on Suga’s back. He wants to earn a victory for his country, for his teammates, for his junior archer class watching from home. He aims, calm as a pool of water, and hits the yellow center. He aims again, this time hitting the outer circle of the yellow portion. Nineteen points. Yaku and Atsumu are quick to follow, a combined score of thirty-eight claimed by their bows. Korea has taken the first two sets. If they take the next, the gold will fall into their hands. 

The silver haired archer seeks purchase on the hem of his uniform, fingers tightening in the fabric as Suga watched the Korean team with bated breath. The first archer from South Korea draws back his bow, waiting half a second before letting his fingers fall open. He scores a nine. An odd mixture of panic and happiness flits through Suga’s mind, if they’d just score all nines the Japanese team could catch up. He shoots again, this time a ten. Suga’s hold tightens on his uniform. The wiry man is up next, dark eyes watching the target with practiced focus. The wind plays with the strands of Sugawara’s loose hair, and the windsock downrange shows the wind speed picking up. The Korean archer lets go, and his arrow strikes the center yellow. He repeats his action and scores another ten. The last man steps up to the mark, pulling back his bow and letting his eyes concentrate on the target in front of him. The arrow flies, landing in the ten point mark. Another arrow, another ten points. 

Suga’s lips are raw by now, to pull ahead each one of them would have to shoot a ten. The man pulls his silver bow into his hands with tender care, fingers running along the cool metal with a sort of compassion. The arrow feels heavy in his hand, a crushing weight that he struggled to hold up. He drew back the bowstring, his lungs drawing a breath. The arrow flies𑁋 sinking into that center ring. He breathes again as he pulls back, just one more, just one more ten. Sweat trails down his cheeks, and he can feel the beginning of a sunburn on the back of his neck. He takes a moment to take in everything around him, the smells, the sounds, the sights, and lets the arrow fly. 

Ten points. 

If he could fall to his knees in relief he would. He turns towards Yaku, towards Atsumu, and gives the two a grin. “What’s got you guys so riled up? Scared of some television crews?” 

Atsumu breathes sharply out his nose, an strange mix of an exhale and a laugh. “Who said I’m scared? I’ll be takin’ home gold today, just you wait.”

“ _We_ ,” Yaku swats the taller man’s shoulder. “We will be taking home the gold. Now get up there and shoot, pretty boy.” Atsumu takes hold of his weapon, knocking an arrow and drawing the string back to his cheek. The anticipation is so thick in the air, that Suga thinks he could reach a hand out and run his fingers through it if he wanted. Atsumu’s eyes narrow, calculating, and he lets the arrow loose. It hits within the ten point margin. He draws back again. 

The arrow lands in the red zone of an eight. 

The noise of the crowd rises behind them, and grins break out across the faces of the Korean team beside them. Suga feels his frustrations boil over, hands in fists at his sides and teeth clenched tightly. They’d lost, _he’d_ lost. And as Yaku steps up to take the final two shots, Suga feels moisture gathering on his eyelashes𑁋 whether it's sweat or tears, he didn’t know.

Yaku still has to shoot, despite the score already locked into place. His hands shake as he draws back his bow, and Suga isn’t even disappointed when the man shoots a double nine. The announcer’s voice drones over the roar of the crowd, and Suga lets his feet lead him into a line behind Yaku and Atsumu.

There’s a stand at the far end of the field marked with the places, first, second, and third. The American team files in behind Suga and the others as they walk, having won against India in the bronze match. There’s a faint hum of music over the intercom, a cheery sort of tune fit for the celebration. 

Suga folds his hands in front of him as he stands behind the pedestal marked with the second place numbers, and despite his bitter feeling of not winning gold, he smiles. His mind is full of thoughts of _we were so close_ and _if only we had shot a little better,_ but the overwhelming idea that his team was _second in the world_ soon overpowers his counterfactual thinking. Yaku bumps against his shoulder, Atsumu eyes shine with tears and a grin tugs at his lips. They’d made it this far, and that was a victory in itself. 

They make idle chatter as the announcer speaks, rocking back and forth on their legs as they wait to be called. The bronze medalists step up to the third place stool, bowing their heads as a sharply dressed man drapes bronze over their necks. 

“And the silver medalists are the team of Japan.” 

Suga claps hands with Yaku, and Yaku with Atsumu, as they step up onto the pedestal. They raise their joined hands above their heads, and the crowd cheers loudly. A woman steps forwards with a pillow where the silver medals rest, smiling at each of the Japanese archers. 

“Atsumu Miya.” 

The blonde bows, letting the man hang the medal around his neck. There’s no more tears on his cheeks, just that cocky smile and an aura of accomplishment. Suga watches fondly as the man and Atsumu shake hands, scoffing as Atsumu attempts a joke. 

“Morisuke Yaku.” 

Suga finds it hilarious that Yaku doesn’t need to lean down to get his medal, he tries to stifle his laughter, but Yaku throws him a rude look and he knows he failed. Yaku plays with the hem of his uniform as he waits for the handshake, a sort of nervous tick he’d always had. Yaku grins at the crowd and holds his medal up, waving lightly to someone Suga couldn’t see. 

“And Koushi Sugawara.” 

Silver hair tickles his nose as he bends forwards. The blood rushes to his head, sun warms his neck, and the thirst for something cold to drink settles on his tongue. The medal is heavy on his neck, solid and the cold metal seeping through his uniform shirt as he stands upright. He takes the man’s outstretched hand and delivers a swift thanks. Another woman steps forwards to hand them each a small gift, and another string of thanks slips from his lips. The gift is a small pendant resting in a black, velvet box, and when Sugawara peers closer at it he notices it’s a glass pheasant holding an arrow. He lets the box fall closed, it was just the odd sort of style he loved. 

The South Korean team steps forwards and claims their victory, and the national anthem of Korea starts over the loudspeaker. Their respective flags raise, and loud cheering erupts from the stands as the song ends. He twists the medal around his fingers like a magician does a coin, reveling in the way it feels against his calloused skin. He casts his gaze to the archer beside him, cheeks flushing under the burn of the sun. “We’ll get gold next time.”

Yaku and Atsumu grin, teeth flashing. The shorter archer snorts, “Of course we will,” and Atsumu pumps a fist in the air. They’ll make it here again, and they won’t let the gold slip from their grasps again. 

→

“Funny how things worked out, huh?” 

Suga stands on his tiptoes, trying to reach the ceiling fan with the duster. It’s too high for someone his height, and he really doesn’t want to go and find a stool. “I’ll say. But, isn’t it better this way?” He points the duster in Oikawa’s direction. “Cleaning is much more fun when you have someone to boss around.” His feet leave the hardwood floor as he makes a leap for the ceiling fan. He misses and stumbles forwards, cursing. 

Oikawa hums, “You’re lucky you have someone so strong to help you. I mean who else could act as your step-stool so you can reach the fan?” The man lets the rag in his hand fall to the floor, forgotten as he crosses the space to Suga. His calloused hands bite into the exposed strip of skin between Suga’s hip and the waistband of his shorts, the touch is comforting and melts away any semblance of tension the archer may have had. 

Suga lets his legs close around the other man’s hips as he’s lifted from the floor, “That’s true,” He reaches to wipe the dust from the fan, his nose scrunching as he desperately fights the urge to sneeze. He spins the blades of the fan around until he finds one that he hasn’t yet dusted, “Okay down there?” 

“I’m growing weaker by the second,” Oikawa tosses his head back and gasps, “I fear my legs will soon give out, tell my mother I love he𑁋” Oikawa trails off as Suga grinds his feet into the man’s sides, words turning into a noise of surprise. “I _will_ drop you.” 

“You won’t.” 

“You’re right, I’m much too chivalrous.” 

Dust falls from the fan like snow, and it’s obvious that they’d left their flat alone for far too long. An old song plays on the radio in the other room, muffled by the walls, but the lyrics could still be made out. The volleyball player sets his partner back onto the ground and holds out a hand, a playful smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth. Oikawa starts to sway his hips, “Can I have this dance?” 

Instead of answering verbally, Sugawara simply winds his fingers through Tooru’s and swings their arms back and forth. The music picks up and Suga twirls Oikawa around, catching him as his sock covered feet slip on the hardwood floor. More dust stirs up as they dance around the living room, cans of cleaning spray and sponges knocked over as their path takes them around the house. 

They collapse breathlessly onto the bed nestled into the corner of their bedroom, limbs tangled and hair a mess. Suga leans over and presses a kiss against Tooru’s cheek, and the setter responds by capturing the archer’s lips. It was soft, like the brush of a breeze over bare skin. Suga smiles into it, this close he can smell the pine of Oikawa’s shampoo and feel the warmth seep from his flushed cheeks. He feels the other man’s mouth form into a smile of his own, and their teeth clack together roughly. Suga pulls away, flicking his tongue out to lick the tip of the other’s nose. 

“Kou-chan, gross!” Gross, Oikawa says, but there is laughter in his voice like the sound of bells in the wind. 

The sun filters through the space patterned curtains that obscure the windows, the sun already hangs low in the sky. “We can make out later,” Suga rolls off the bed, pulling Oikawa to his feet. “We have a house to clean. And you promised to cook tonight, I hope you didn’t forget.” He draws the last syllable of _forget_ out, trying to get a rise out of his boyfriend. 

“Yes, yes, I remember.” Oikawa holds his hands over his head and stretches. Suga takes the chance to poke his ribs, laughter bubbling from his throat as the taller man doubles over. “Keep going like that and there will be _no_ mapo tofu tonight.” 

The archer gasps, hand wandering up to clench the fabric over his heart. “You wouldn’t dare!” 

“Watch me.” 

And then they’re right back on the bed, becoming a tangle of graphic t-shirts and messy hair as they wrestle playfully. Suga feels the sunny yellow and pink of Oikawa turning his world into a colorful mess. A colorful mess he would never want to live without. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey hey first work! I apologize for any errors I lowkey did not beta this. Comments are appreciated !! Hope you enjoyed


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